Proclaim the Man
by Temporal Grace
Summary: The 10th Doctor ruminates on his previous self and the importance of clothing and closure.  And, why did he just happen to have a wedding band in his pocket? Now a collection of one-shots, each one focusing on a specific moment of Doctor Who.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I've had to make a few changes to this story; somehow, the most current version of this didn't get posted, and I've really no idea how that happened, as I only have one copy of the file. I've posted this without the benefit of a beta reader; I quite literally wrote and posted this in an hour, so there are bound to be some mistakes. Thank you to those of you who have already added this to their favorite story lists; I appreciate it more than you know. I'd also like to thank any reviewers in advance for taking the time to read and respond.**_

_**Doctor Who is the creative property of the BBC and is used here without permission. No profit or copyright infringement is intended as the result of this work.**_

* * *

><p><em>"For the apparel oft proclaim the man."<em>

_-William Shakespeare, _

_Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3_

The Doctor stepped into the wardrobe room of the TARDIS and took a long look around. There was a little ritual he always liked to perform when he retired one of his outfits: piece by piece he removed each bit, tucking the accessories into ornate little boxes, leaving hats and the odd umbrella or walking stick in the cupboard that he kept solely for those artifacts of his. There was closure to removing each garment for the last time, folding or hanging it carefully and putting it away with the other remnants of his past lives.

It left him free to really enjoy dressing in whatever each new form found appropriate or attractive and to let his mind think ahead to what adventures he might face in his new costume. It gave him permission to wonder what kind of man would choose the clothes he found himself donning and to speculate what self-discoveries he'd make in the coming weeks.

He was _really_ going to miss the ritual this time. He wasn't sure when he'd ever been more distraught at the prospect of regeneration. His ninth form had still been so new to him, and had only just begun to accept the absolution offered to him in the smile of one tiny pink and yellow human. It seemed tragic for him to carry the burden of the Time War and then be shuffled off just as it began to ease; to die just as he grasped the concept of living.

And so, he wandered the wardrobe in borrowed jimjams and a dressing gown remarkable only for the fruit stashed in its pockets, waiting for something to catch his eye. It would be easier if that eye would stop wandering to the cupboard he'd neglected out of necessity, and _that_ would be easier if the cupboard didn't seem to be staring resentfully at him.

The Doctor sighed deeply as he held up an ancient, red military jacket and the vast quantities of air these lungs held did not escape his notice. He could have asked for his clothes back, had _meant_ to even, but when he went to retrieve them, they were gone. He presumed Rose had taken them to remember him by; even for the brief moment he'd awakened to deal with the remote controlled Christmas tree, he'd been aware of the scent of her tears clinging to the leather jacket, and the black folds of his jumper. It was touching, really, except it bred the terror that she might not be able to accept this new form.

And that, he decided while he considered a smart-looking pin-striped suit, would be unbearable. He grabbed a brown long coat hanging conveniently nearby and broke into a wide smile and hurried into his new kit. After only a brief consideration, he shoved a pair of trainers on his feet and regarded himself in the mirror, turning this way and that to admire the effect of the ensemble.

_Not bad,_ he decided, taking in his reflection. He ran his hands across his cheeks and mouth, testing the soft flesh, pushing it this way and that. His regeneration had been hurried, but he couldn't have asked for a better face. He thought he might be as good-looking in this regeneration as any of Rose's pretty boys had been and if her blush when he wondered aloud if he was sexy had been any indication, she might even agree. Well, he _thought_ the blush was at that remark, but she might as easily have been embarrassed by the wink he'd thrown her way when he said it.

The teeth really _were_ going to take some getting used to, though, he decided giving them a once-over with his tongue. With a last look and a nod of nervous approval, he turned away from the mirror. It was time to re-introduce himself to Rose, properly this time.

Almost of his own volition, his right hand shot out and grabbed a pair of brainy-looking spectacles and tucked them absently into his pocket. _That's something else to think about,_ he realized, as he contemplated his unusually empty pockets, _I can't take the jacket and the jumper from Rose if she needs them as a memento, but I_ do_ have to have the sonic screwdriver. _He remembered putting it into the pocket of his borrowed dressing gown after he dispatched of the psychotic Santas, but it hadn't been there when he'd awakened. Rose would likely have put it back into the jacket's pocket to keep it safe when they were moving him around, so maybe he'd be able to sneak into her room and just grab it back.

In the end, she offered it to him after dinner, while Jackie and Mickey dashed ahead of them into the Christmas 'snow.' She held it out to him, almost shyly, telling him without words that she wouldn't be returning his jacket and jumper any time soon.

One of his hearts nearly burst with the happiness of knowing that he'd meant as much to her as she did him, despite the ears and the madness. The other sank into his canvas enclosed feet; if she'd cared so much about the _other_ him, surely she wouldn't like this new and very, very different persona.

His worst fears became reality when she asked him if he'd be leaving on his own, but then reality upended itself when she disabused him of that notion. How strange to think she'd been nervous he wouldn't want her when the whole of his being had been created specifically with her in mind.

Then, she was looking at him with excitement and trepidation and maybe a little fear at the idea of traveling with this new him, and he said the only thing he could think of to reassure them both that they still belonged together, "It's going to be _fantastic._" As memorials went, it wasn't quite as consoling as his little ritual, but it was them acknowledging what was lost before they moved forward together.

Just like that, they were hand in hand, planning and dreaming. The future was theirs; it was right in front of them, so near that his pointed finger brushed up against it, and he was right: it really would be fantastic.


	2. Band of Gold

"_Now that you're gone, all that's left is a band of gold."_

_-Frieda Payne_

Proclaim the Man: A Band of Gold

The Doctor looks at Donna's forlorn form, legs dangling over the side of the building, the skirts of her abused wedding dress fluttering in the breeze, and he knows exactly what she's feeling. After all, he isn't the only one to have a future with somebody he loves snatched away today. In a burst of compassion, he unbuttons his suit coat, settling it over her shoulders and sitting beside her.

"God, you're skinny. This wouldn't fit a rat," she tells him, and he realizes it's her way of saying 'thank you'.

The Doctor reaches into his pocket, casting about for something he can use to create a bio-damper. When his fingers close over the smooth, cool metal of the wedding band, his hearts lurch. He blinks his eyes, and in a millisecond that stretches forever to the likes of a Lord of Time, he remembers the last time he held it.

_Rose._

"How do I look?" she strolls toward him, and he leans against the TARDIS console, looking her over appreciatively. Hair twisted up with a few loose tendrils, a style Cassandra first used, but that Rose seems to like, a short, army-style jacket in a dusky pink and her worn jeans with the ever-present trainers. She looks ready for adventure, and she's _beautiful._

He tells her as much, and she arches an eyebrow. "For a human?" she teases him.

The Doctor rolls his eyes; he's never going to live that down. Not for the first time, he curses his Ninth incarnation with his unfortunate ears and his unfortunate tendency to blurt out the first thing on his mind, and then backpedal. Well, he admitts to himself, his judgment hadn't been _all_ bad back then; he'd found Rose and managed to convince her to stay.

"Yes, for a human," he tells her dryly. "You're just missing one thing." He thumps his elbow against the TARDIS console behind him – a move he showed Henry Winkler with a jukebox, just before he auditioned for the role in Happy Days– and a hidden compartment slides open, the jewels inside almost blinding.

"What's that, then?" Rose asks him, interested.

"Rastafoonoctorius has some of the best jungles in the galaxy – did I mention the singing trees?" He continues without waiting for Rose's nod, "Thing is, Rastafoonians tend to be a little bit conservative. Well, I say a little bit, but I mean that they have a very rigid sense of decorum and tend to imprison people who don't adhere to it."

"And how do the Crown Jewels come into that? And how, exactly, did you come to have the Crown Jewels on board the TARDIS?"

"I saved them from space pirates, oh, sixty years ago it's been. Anyway, I _meant_ to switch these back for the decoys, but I never quite got around to it."

"You mean the Crown Jewels aren't _really_ the Crown Jewels?" she asks him, somehow unsurprised.

"Nope." He draws the word out, popping the 'p'.

"And what does that have to do with the Rastafoonians?" Rose passes over his revelation as though discovering that National Treasures being switched for fakes to protect them from roving space pirates is an everyday occurrence.

"I thought you might like to wear some of it," he tells her, holding up a ring with a golf-ball sized diamond.

"I'm supposed to run in that?" her voice is skeptical and amused.

"Well, if all goes to plan, there won't be so much running," the Doctor protests.

"And why am I supposed to be wearing that?" Rose doesn't need to remind him that things almost never go according to plan, but the arch of her eyebrow does just that.

"Well, it's just that us traveling together would be indecent to them," he blurts in a rush, running his hand through his hair. "But, if they thought we were _married_…" the Doctor trails off, his meaning obvious.

Rose must have noticed the hot blush spreading its way across his cheeks and taken pity on him, because she doesn't tease him about it. It would, he decides, almost be worth it to see that impish smile with her pink tongue poking between her lips.

"Right, then," she peers into the drawer full of rings, sifting through it for something she might actually feel comfortable wearing, finally finding what she wanted: a simple band of gold. He plucks it from her fingers before she can slide it on, intent on doing the honors himself.

"With this ring-"

"Don't. It's not a joke," she told him, voice husky, "even if it's not _real_, it's not a joke."

He surrenders to the mood, then, his thin attempt to stifle it diffused, and their eyes lock as he slides the ring over her knuckle and brings it gently to his lips.

Her breath catches, and then they both rush awkwardly for the door, anxious for something to distract them from the feeling that something is drawing them inexorably closer.

Later, much later, they rush through the door, panting for breath and exhilarated from running for their lives. Once on board, they laugh, giddy and overjoyed to be home, as the Doctor begins the dematerialization sequence and Rose throws herself into the jump seat. "So much for playing conservative," she laughs. "You lasted all of ten minutes before they were ready to toss you in jail."

"Me?" he asks incredulously. "You're the one who told them we weren't the same species!"

"They were asking why we didn't bring the family with!" she defends herself with mock indignation. "I was trying to explain."

"That we couldn't have children because we weren't the same species, and we might not be entirely compatible," he guffaws. "'Course we're compatible. Humans are compatible with just about everything in the galaxy."

At the mention of their supposed 'compatability' the mood shifts again from companionable to charged with the underlying tension that's been building between them almost from the beginning. "Rose," he begins, not sure of what he's going to say next.

"Here," she interrupts him, almost desperately, as if afraid of what he might be about to say. She pulls the ring from her finger and holds it out for him to take.

"You could keep it," he tells her, awkwardly, not quite meeting her eyes, hating that he wants her to keep wearing it. "You might wear it again."

"I'm sure I will," she replies, her meaning clear in her voice. "But you hold on to it 'til next time. Bigger on the inside pockets and all."

He takes the ring from her, allowing his fingers to graze her palm, committing the feel of her skin to memory.

Then, the Doctor opens his eyes and the here and now, the screaming loss of _her_ comes rushing back. "Here," he tells Donna, holding up the ring, "you'd better put this on."

"Oh, do you have to rub it in?" she asks him, hurt and anger lacing her voice in equal parts.

He almost laughs at the irony of the statement, but continues as if his hearts weren't breaking in his chest. "This is a bio-damper," he informs her archly. And then, because a joke is the only thing that will keep the tears in check, he decides that this time, it's ok to turn the moment into a joke.

"With this ring, I thee bio-damp."


End file.
